Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“You never took the bar?”

“I couldn’t be bothered with that. I was hot to be a cop.”

“Are you still?”

“Yes, sort of. I love investigative work, and I’m good at it. I had a couple of good collars that got me a detective’s shield; I had a good rabbi – a senior cop who helped me with promotion; he’s dead now, though, and I seem to have slowed down a bit.”

“But you’re different from other cops.”

Stone sighed again. “Yes, I guess I am. I’ve been an outsider since the day I started at the academy.”

“So you’re not going to be the next chief of police?”

Stone laughed. “Hardly. You could get good odds at the 19th Precinct that I’ll never make detective first grade.”

“What are you now?”

“Detective second.”

“So, you’re thirty-eight years old, and…”

“Essentially without prospects,” Stone said, shrugging. “I can look forward to a pension in six years; a better one, if I can last thirty.”

“Why are you limping?”

Stone told her about the knee, keeping it as undramatic as possible. She listened and didn’t say anything. “Now it’s your turn,” he said, “and don’t leave out anything.”

“My bio is much simpler,” she said. “Born and grew up in Atlanta; the old man was a lawyer, now a judge; two years at Bennington, which my father thought was far too radical – I was wearing only black clothes and not washing my hair enough – so I finished at the University of Georgia, in journalism. Summer between my junior and senior years, I got on the interns’ program at the network, and, when I graduated, they offered me a job as a production assistant. I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m still a production assistant.”

“But at a higher level, surely? After all, you’re assisting Barron Harkness.”

She laughed. “It’s a nice place to work, if your father can afford to send you there. The perks aren’t bad.” She looked at him sideways. “You skipped something.”

“What?”

“Married?”

“Nope.”

“Never? Why not?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Cynic.”

“Probably.”

“No girl?”

“Not at the moment. I was seeing somebody for a couple of years. When I was in the hospital, she accepted a transfer to LA.”

“Sweet.”

Stone shrugged. “I didn’t come through with the commitment she wanted; she took a hike.” He imitated her sidelong glance. “What about you?”

She sighed. “The usual assortment of yuppies during my twenties. I’m just out of a relationship with a married man.”

“Those don’t work, I’m told.”

“This one sure didn’t. He kept me on the hook for four years, and then he just couldn’t bring himself to leave his wife.”

“That’s the drill. Still hurting?”

“Now and then, if I don’t watch myself. I think I’m relieved, more than anything else.”

“Was it Harkness?”

“No; he wasn’t in the TV business. Advertising.”

“For what it’s worth, I think the guy’s nuts.”

She smiled, a wide mouth full of straight, white teeth. She started to speak, but didn’t. Instead, she concentrated on her pasta.

Stone watched her, and he felt the possibilities in his gut.

When they left Elaine’s, the rain had stopped, and the air was cool. The car still waited for them.

“Can I drop you?” she asked. “It’s one of the perks of the job; I think I probably spend more of the network’s money on cars than they pay me.”

“Sure, thanks. It’s early; I’ll give you a nightcap at my house.”

“Sold.”

They got into the car, and Stone gave the driver his address.

She looked at him, eyebrows arched. “That’s a pretty expensive neighborhood. You on the take?”

Stone laughed. “Nope. I’ll explain later.”

They drove straight down Second Avenue, and at Sixty-ninth Street they ran into a wall of flashing lights. A uniformed cop was waving traffic through a single open lane.

“Pull over here,” Stone said to the driver. He opened the car door and turned to Cary. “Give me a couple of minutes, will you?” He flashed his badge at a uniform and crossed the yellow tape. A Checker cab was stopped at the intersection, and a small group had gathered around the driver’s open door. Stone saw Headly, from the detective squad.

Headly nodded. “Cabdriver caught one in the head,” he said to Stone. “Looks like he was stopped for the light, somebody pulled up next to him, and just popped him one.”

Stone glanced into the cab at the dead driver, sprawled across the front seat. There was a lot of blood. “You got it covered?” he said to Headly.

“Yeah,” the detective replied.

Suddenly the cab was bathed in bright light. Stone turned, shielding his eyes.

“Howdy, Stone,” Scoop Berman said, still operating his camera. “You on this one?”

“It’s Headly’s,” Stone said. “You can give him the hard time.” He stepped out of Scoop’s lights and bumped into Cary Hilliard, who was staring at the dead driver. He took her elbow. “You don’t want to see that,” he said, turning her toward their car. “How’d you get past the tape?”

“Press card,” she said, showing a blue, plastic shield on a string around her neck. She took it off and stuffed it into her handbag.

In the car they were both quiet for a block or two.

“You see a lot of that stuff?” she asked finally.

“Enough. More than I’d like to see. Did it upset you?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t get a good enough look, thank God. I faint at the sight of blood.”

They turned into Turtle Bay, and the car stopped.

“Wait for me,” Cary said to the driver.

They climbed the steps, and Stone opened the front door of the house.

“You’ve got the duplex?” Cary asked, surprised.

“I’ve got the house,” Stone replied. He flipped on the hall light.

“You are on the take,” she said, laughing. “No honest cop could ever afford a house in Turtle Bay.”

“Would you believe I inherited it?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I did. My Great-Aunt Elizabeth, my grandfather’s sister, married well. She always had a soft spot for my father, and she willed it to him. She outlived him, though, only died early this year at the age of ninety-eight, and so her estate came to me.”

Stone led her into the library.

“It’s a mess,” she said, looking around at the empty shelves, stripped of their varnish, the books stacked on the floor, the rug rolled up, the furniture stacked in a corner, everything under sheets of plastic.

“It is now,” Stone said, “but I’m working on it. My father designed and built this room; it was his first important commission, right after World War II. Everything is solid walnut. You could still buy it in those days; now all you can get is veneer, and that’s out of sight.”

“It’s going to be magnificent,” she said.

He led her through the other rooms, pointing out a couple of pieces that his father had built. “Most of the upholstered furniture is out being re-covered. My plan is to do the place up right, then sell it and retire on the proceeds, one of these days.”

“Why not just sell it now?” she asked.

“I had a real estate lady look at it. She says I can triple the price if I put it in good shape – new heating, plumbing, kitchen – the works.”

“How can you afford to do that?”

“There was a little money in Aunt Elizabeth’s estate. I’m putting it all into the house and doing most of the work myself, with a couple of helpers and the occasional plumber and electrician.”

“Where are your mother’s pictures?”

“In my bedroom.”